At The "Porter Manse."

[That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century. It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set off--in 1639--from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there, Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in 1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to this day.]

Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed, Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemed Two hundred years ago with life and power. I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower In light of home; while life that only seemed On history's page becomes the real, redeemed From all the chaff that time fails not to shower.

Ah, such old places, holding through the years Continuous life of man's activity, Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears In modern homes built e'er so lovingly. Imbued so long with human hopes and fears, Have they not claim to personality?

OUR LADY OF THE MANSE.

Of all those born into the name to share The charming freedom of the Porter Manse, None were more worthy of inheritance Than she who now presides as lady there. Her gracious calm makes hospitality wear A beauteous crown of peace. Kind tolerance And wide-embracing sympathy enhance Her power to please and lighten daily care.

'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth Of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace, Make growing years reflect the joys of youth. They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace In all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth, Of making home a loved abiding place.

TO B. P. SHILLABER.

July 12, 1888.

When lingering Day at last recedes from sight, And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place, Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light, 'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight Through oft-frequented avenues of space To those dear souls--the dearest of the race-- Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height. From this old mountain-top I come to you, My large souled trusted friend of many a year, With birthday greetings of the roseate hue Left by a perfect Day just lingering here. Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true, And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!

Mount Wachusett, Mass.

TO OUR MARY.

Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need, Forgetting self, if only we be served, How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed, Or brought to being thoughts that intercede For others' progress. We, all undeserved, Cannot forget that life to ends thus curved Made time for us to plant our own pet seed.

The world owes much to many a sister dear, Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour A fond desire for larger, happier sphere, Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower Rich daily blessings. Such may know e'en here A Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.

Chelsea, Mass., 1887.

A BIRTHDAY REMEMBRANCE.

TO F. D. L.

September 26.

Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old Another year, which graciously awaits Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates The wealth the parting year has left untold. Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates, It brings continued hope of life that dates Man's finest being. Thou its secrets hold! Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones, To aid the growing soul pick out the way To life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moans Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay, If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay.

1887.

JOSEF HOFMANN.

(After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888.)

O marvellous child, a temple where in ease Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere, Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys To new and wondrous unheard harmonies? O favored boy, marked out to be the peer Of those who in all ages God's voice hear, Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!

Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates, This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine! May chilling poverty, or sin that dates Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise design To have full sway--as she anticipates-- In working out, in time, her laws divine.

I.

AFTER THE DENIAL.

John 21: 15-18.

When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore, The risen Lord, still anxious that his own Should know love's secret as to him 'twas known, Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me more Than these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore. Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone? "Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan. Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before. Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'er The shores of time, and longs for human love; The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep, And makes response as Peter did of yore. "Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above, Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."

II.

GETHSEMANE.

Matthew 26:36-46.

"Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour For human sympathy and love to shower A needed strength beyond words to impart! Humanity is richer for this art Of seeing in poor finite man a power-- Before which even ministering angels cower-- To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart. Alas! the power to know will bring the pain. But through the pain of wisdom's true insight Is Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain. Possessed of this, we see in tenderest light His sorrowing heart in failing to obtain The longed-for love in hour of darkest night.

ON LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG.

By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side, In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold, The spirit of the waters, as of old, Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide, It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride, The heart of man has on its bosom told; And hails as conqueror Him who once did hold Its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.

Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail The power of Him who walked the holy sea Of Galilee. Capacity to fail Were harder to believe than victory. May He who conquered wildest Nature's heart His infinite power and rest to us impart!

August, 1891.

LUKE 23:24.

From holy depths he to the Father prayed, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do." His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through, Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed. In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighed With tenderest love and longing towards those who, Through ignorance of what they might be too, Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid. "They know not what they do." O blessed sight Into the heart of sin's great mystery. Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light, Clothed in her garment of sincerity. Blest are those souls who reach this precious height; They know the secret of Christ's victory.